by Jeff Noon
‘What is it, Simone?’
‘And then he started to cry. Right in the middle of his story.’
‘Do you know why?’
She nodded. ‘I believe so. I touched his arm, and asked him: “What are you crying for?” And he answered, “Nothing much.” He spoke as quietly as I’m doing to you now. “Nothing much. The things lost on the way.” That’s it.’
She turned to face Hobbes as she repeated the phrase.
‘Only the things lost on the way.’
And without anything specific being mentioned, Hobbes knew precisely what Lucas Bell had meant.
‘And what happened then, after he’d started crying?’
Simone shrugged. ‘And then we kissed, and walked back through the town to Duffy’s fish and chip shop. Night was falling. The King Lost mask was painted on his face, Neville took his pictures, the manager and the publicist woman fussed around some more, and a gaggle of local girls gathered to watch. One of them even tried to make a grab for Lucas. And I remember thinking, Oh my God, it’s started already. Because one look at him in the mask told me: this will make him famous.’ She breathed heavily. ‘It scared me, to be honest.’
A car passed by. Hobbes waited until the street was quiet once more. ‘Simone?’
‘Yes?’
‘Would you mind telling me why you split up with Lucas? I ask only because I fear it might have something to do with the death of Brendan Clarke.’
Her eyes closed momentarily.
‘I fell pregnant. And then lost the baby. It was … what can I say, it was too much for us.’
‘I see. I’m sorry to hear—’
‘Oh please!’ She spat the words at him. ‘Those days are gone, and all the people in them. And those of us sad enough to still be alive – well, we’ve changed in so many ways, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’ Now she breathed evenly, seeking balance. ‘I left myself – my fundamental being, if you will – back there, in a room at a private clinic, a few weeks after Lucas died.’
Hobbes stood in silence as thoughts of his own past played in his mind.
He said, ‘My mother killed herself.’
Simone Paige looked at him, and then away. ‘What are you expecting? Pity?’
He found his self-control. ‘Simone, I believe your life is in danger.’ She didn’t respond, so he carried on. ‘The murderer of Brendan Clarke wanted you to discover the body.’
‘How did he know I was coming?’
‘I imagine Brendan told him. Or her.’
‘Right. So they were having a nice little chat?’
‘Seems that way, until it turned nasty.’
‘Oh Christ.’
Hobbes watched her face carefully, as he explained: ‘And once the murderer found out that you’d be arriving later that day, they left a note on the front door of the house, directing you to the back door, which was left open.’
‘I didn’t see any note.’
‘No, it had been removed before you got there. As was this …’
He took the plastic bag containing the letter and envelope from his pocket, and handed it to her. ‘This was left on the bed, right next to Brendan’s body.’
She looked at the envelope first, at her own name written there. Then her eyes moved to the letter and she read the contents quietly to herself.
SIMONE, YOU’RE TO BLAME FOR THE KILLING. LADY MINERVA.
‘What does it mean?’ she asked. ‘The killing of whom? Of Brendan? Or Lucas? Tell me!’ Her voice cracked, her hands were shaking. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I, not yet. But this worries me. I want to offer you police protection.’
‘No.’
‘Simone … you’re at risk.’
‘I’m not letting this take over my life. And who the hell is Lady Minerva, anyway?’
‘You’ve never heard the name before?’
‘Minerva is the Ancient Roman goddess of wisdom and poetry. But beyond that, I don’t know, I’m not sure.’ Her eyes narrowed as she tried to recall. ‘Somewhere, somewhere … I’ve heard it before, I’m sure. Perhaps Lucas mentioned the name.’
Hobbes stepped closer to her. ‘Simone, are you staying overnight?’
‘I’ve got a room, but I don’t know … I might drive back to London.’
‘Just give us the word, and we’ll do everything we can to keep you safe.’
The street around them was utterly quiet and still.
Her eyes, with all their otherworldly beauty, blinked and then locked on his in the glow of the nearest street lamp. He was drawn to her, he couldn’t help himself. And yet, once again, he sensed on the deepest level that she knew more than she was telling, a lot more.
And then her hand grasped at his, the fingers curling around.
Was it fear, written there in her expression? Or guilt?
He could not tell.
WEDNESDAY
26 AUGUST 1981
Taken by the Tide
Hobbes and Palmer set off walking uphill, away from the sea. It was a fair slog but the air was crisp and clean, and he felt invigorated as his body settled into a new rhythm. Finally they reached their destination, a pub called the Crown and Anchor. The place had opened at eleven and it was barely twenty past, but already there were a number of drinkers in the place. Cigarette smoke drifted below the beamed ceiling.
Hobbes scanned the room. The clientele looked to be serious drinkers, older men in the main, a couple of middle-aged women. They looked his way as he stood by the doorway, a stranger in their midst. He was suddenly aware that DC Palmer was the only black person in there. But the expected reaction never came, as two of the men welcomed her with smiles and offers of drinks.
‘Just a Coke, thanks, Alf,’ she replied. ‘Ice and lemon. And some crisps, if you’re feeling generous.’
‘Coming up, love. Cheese and onion, isn’t it?’
‘You know me so well.’
Palmer led Hobbes over to a table near the window, giving them a good view of the door. ‘He’s not here yet,’ she said. ‘But this is his watering hole, this time of day.’
‘So then, we wait?’
‘We wait.’
The pub livened up around noon and more people joined the flock. Palmer was on her second packet of crisps by then.
‘Presto! Action stations.’
Hobbes followed her gesture, over towards the door of the pub, where a robust, thick-bellied man had wandered in. He sported a crew cut and a ruddy face.
‘Now that fair specimen of British manhood is Danny Webster.’
‘Good. But I think we’ll let him settle in a bit.’
Webster went over to talk with two other men at a table in the corner. Then he crossed to the bar, chatted to the barmaid for a minute or two, before returning to the table with a tray of drinks.
‘What do we know about him?’ Hobbes asked.
‘Nothing too bad. He likes a fight after closing time. Usually loses, because he’s well plastered by then. He once threw a brick through a shop window, no one knows why. Recently divorced. And permanently unemployed since his plumbing business collapsed, but I suspect he’s working anyway, cash in hand.’
‘I know the sort,’ Hobbes replied. ‘Nursing his wounded pride.’
‘Sticking a finger in the wound, more like. Do you want me to introduce you?’
‘I don’t think so, Jan. But I’ll call you over if needed.’
‘Fair enough.’
Hobbes went over to Webster’s table and tapped him on the shoulder. Webster turned round and stared blankly at Hobbes.
‘Danny Webster?’
‘That’s me.’ He had a suspicious look on his face.
‘Can I have a word?’
‘Look, if you’re another bloody Lucas Bell fan, then the answer’s No. I’ve said my piece, and that’s it.’
‘Actually, I’m a police inspector.’ He nodded at Webster’s two friends. ‘Give us a minute, will you, lads?’
The pair picked up t
heir pint glasses without a word and went over to join another set of drinkers at an adjacent table. Hobbes sat down opposite Webster, who took a quick sip of beer and then asked, ‘Have I done something wrong?’
Hobbes smiled. ‘I read your interview in 100 Splinters, about the night Lucas Bell died. I thought it was very interesting.’
Webster breathed out, obviously relieved. His features relaxed. Parts of his face were the shade of an unripe plum, evidence of years of serious imbibing.
‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t too pleased with it, myself.’
His voice was already slurry; this wasn’t his first drink of the day.
‘Why’s that?’
‘That idiot chopped a lot of it out, a lot of my words. I talked to him for ages, I did. Bloody hours!’
Hobbes nodded at this, as though in agreement. ‘I have a few questions. Do you mind?’
‘What’s this about then?’
‘You do know Brendan Clarke is dead?’
‘What?’ Webster looked genuinely shocked. ‘No, I didn’t know that.’
‘He was murdered on Saturday night.’
‘Jesus Christ. You don’t think that I had anything to do with it, do you?’
Hobbes let him squirm a moment longer, before asking, ‘Did you meet him in person?’
‘Yeah, sure. He came down to see me, special like.’
‘When was this?’
‘About a month ago, something like that. We spent a good few hours chatting, then he went away. That’s all. Honest.’
‘Actually, I want to ask about Lucas Bell’s schooldays.’
‘Why?’
‘You were in the same year, I believe?’
‘The same form, actually, so I saw a fair bit of him.’
‘Did Lucas have many friends?’
‘Well, he wasn’t one of the cool kids, you know.’
‘Anything you can tell me, Danny, it would really help.’
Webster’s eyes were suddenly focused. He finished his drink and placed the empty glass on the table. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Just answer, if you could.’
Webster licked his lips. ‘My throat’s parched, I can hardly speak.’
Hobbes sighed, and then held up Webster’s pint glass for DC Palmer to see.
Webster grinned. ‘Now then, let me think back for you.’ He angled his head slightly, the better to make his brain work. ‘Yeah, Lucas had a small group of friends. The usual nutters and weaklings. They all hung around together. For protection, I suppose – not that it did them much good. There were some right bullies in that school. It all got pretty cruel at times.’
Hobbes got the impression that Webster might well have been one of the bullies; his face was shadowed by regret.
‘Can you remember any of his friends’ names?’
‘God, no. I didn’t speak to them that much.’
Palmer came over and placed a fresh pint in front of Webster.
‘Cheers, love.’
She sat down next to Hobbes, and listened in as he asked his questions: ‘Carry on, Danny, you were saying …’
‘Maybe a Gavin somebody? Gavin Richards? Something like that.’
Hobbes made a note of the name. ‘That’s good. What about Edenville?’
Webster’s pint pot stopped halfway to his lips, but he didn’t speak.
Hobbes insisted: ‘Does the word mean something to you?’
‘To me, no.’
Hobbes was getting frustrated, and Webster saw this in his face. ‘It’s a shame you can’t talk to Miss Dylan,’ he said. ‘She was very close to Lucas. And I’m sure she’d have had all the answers you need.’
‘Who was she? A teacher?’
‘Hell, no. It was a boys’ school. The only woman there was old Mrs Prendergast, the dreaded matron. But Miss Dylan worked at the Brassey Institute.’
‘What’s that?’
DC Palmer answered this one: ‘It’s the town’s library.’
Webster nodded. ‘Miss Dylan came into school a few times a year, to talk about books and all that. And she also gave us elocution lessons, or tried to. In truth, she was a bit crazy. Always surrounded by a gang of weirdos, chatting to them about God knows what, stories and stuff. Poetry and what have you.’
‘And Lucas was part of this group?’
‘Right at the centre. They had a side room at the library where they used to meet, or you might see them walking along the promenade together, staring out over the water. Or even hanging out at the cemetery, studying the gravestones.’
‘How many of them were there?’
‘About half a dozen. Boys and girls. And Miss Dylan presiding over them like a head witch.’
‘You can’t remember any of the other people in this club?’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry. I think I’ve drunk too much booze over the years. It’s all a blur. Fact is, if Lucas hadn’t become famous, I wouldn’t even remember him.’
Hobbes asked, ‘I suppose Miss Dylan isn’t still here, is she? I mean, in Hastings?’
‘She’s dead. Didn’t I say that?’
‘No. No, you didn’t.’
‘Oh, it was a big thing. A tragedy, the local paper called it. They painted her as a lonely spinster, unmarried, you know. A sad woman.’
Palmer butted in. ‘I think I remember this. It wasn’t that long ago, was it?’
‘About three years ago – 1978, I think.’
‘What happened to her?’ Hobbes asked.
‘She was taken by the tide,’ Webster answered.
The phrase caught the inspector by surprise. ‘You mean she drowned?’
Palmer explained: ‘It’s a saying we use round here, going back to the old fishing days. It’s the idea of a sacrifice to the sea: we take, and we give back.’
Webster nodded. ‘There was a bad storm that winter, the waves coming right over on to the prom.’ His eyes blinked as he brought the details to mind. ‘And nobody knows why Miss Dylan was out in it, nor why she’d stepped so close to the front. There were whispers that she’d been drunk or on drugs. That she was shouting at the waves to take her. Or daring them to. And then whoosh! She was gone. A few seconds is all the sea needs.’
He put down his beer glass, already half empty.
‘What was her first name?’
‘Christ almighty. Her first name? Who do you think I am, Mr Memory?’
‘DC Palmer? Any ideas?’
‘No, sorry, but I can find out easily enough.’
‘But she had a nickname,’ Webster added. ‘I remember now. This was just within her little group.’
‘Go on?’
‘It wasn’t a horrible name or anything. At least, I think it wasn’t. They called her Lady Minerva.’
Hobbes’s heart missed a beat. He asked, ‘Do you know why they called her that?’
Webster shook his head. ‘Beyond me.’ He took a long sup of beer.
‘Was Miss Dylan’s body found?’
‘No. No, I don’t think it was.’
DC Palmer agreed with him: ‘She was washed out to sea.’
Hobbes let the thoughts stir in his brain. Then he asked, ‘Tell me, Danny, did Brendan Clarke ask you about Lucas Bell’s friends, and the librarian?’
‘He did, yes.’
‘And what about Edenville?’
‘Well, that’s why I hesitated, because he was really keen on finding out whether it meant anything to me. Really keen …’ He hesitated.
Hobbes pushed him. ‘Let’s hear it then.’
They stared at each other. The lights, noise and constant chatter of the pub seemed to fade into the distance.
‘It’s a word I saw once, on the blackboard at school.’
‘You mean a teacher wrote it there?’
Webster shook his head. ‘No. Just the kids, this was, the boys of the gang. Lucas, the others. But they rubbed the word out as soon as I came in.’
‘What did it represent?’
Webster looked confused. Hobbes s
poke quickly, urging him on: ‘What does the word mean?’
‘It was a place. A town. That’s all I know. I think Miss Dylan came up with the idea.’
‘What was it? Was it Hastings? Did it represent Hastings? Or London, or some other place?’
Webster tapped at the side of his head. ‘In here. Inside here. It’s where they lived.’
‘How do you mean?’
Webster’s eyes were staring wild. ‘An imaginary town. Edenville. It’s a refuge. A place where they could feel safe. Paradise.’ He laughed. ‘For all the good it did them. They were mad, all of them. Complete loonies. I hated them! I just wanted to … I wanted to hurt them.’
He stopped speaking as though suddenly ashamed. His face was damp and his lips were flecked with spittle. Pain radiated from him.
‘I was one of the worst. I never said in the interview, but I was a right bully back then, I was. A nasty piece of work.’
‘Did you hit Lucas?’
‘No. But his friends were fair game. Easy pickings.’ He chewed on his lower lip. ‘I’m not proud of it. Don’t think I am.’
‘I know you’re not, Danny. I can see that.’
‘I’m not proud of it,’ he repeated, like an obsession. ‘Not at all.’
Webster raised his pint glass to his lips before realizing it was empty. He was drunk, and it showed on his face, in the glazed, hateful look in his eyes.
Hobbes was losing him. ‘Danny, listen to me, this is very important. Did this group of friends kill anybody?’
Webster looked shocked. ‘What?’
‘Lucas and his friends, did they kill someone, by accident maybe? Or did they harm somebody?’
‘What? No. They were weaklings, the whole lot of them. Piss-poor specimens, they wouldn’t dare squash a fly.’
Hobbes sat back in his chair. He shared a look with Palmer, and then spoke in a calmer voice. ‘And you told Brendan Clarke about all this, Danny? About Edenville?’
‘Yeah, I did. But I was surprised when I read the interview, because there was nothing about that mentioned. And he seemed so interested, you know?’
